Savor
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are on their honeymoon ... in Paris. Crowley really wants his husband. His husband really wants to finish his slice of cake. Crowley tries to find some way to persuade him. (Inspired by this line about Crowley from the book - "he could do really weird things with his tongue") Aziraphale x Crowley


"Come on, angel!" Crowley whines. "That's your fifth slice so far!"

Aziraphale lifts his fork to his lips, fully prepared for another bite of the scrumptious German chocolate cake on his plate. "And I'm very much enjoying it."

"Yes, but this is our _honeymoon_! And forgive me for saying so, but there're things other than _cake_ I'd like to be eating right now!"

Aziraphale's lips twist, his husband's comment nearly costing him his appetite.

_Nearly_.

"Ugh, Crowley! I do forgive you, but this is no time to be _vulgar_."

"Absolutely." Crowley starts searching the floor for the waiter, ready to ask for their check. "I agree. Quite right. So let's go back to our room where I can be vulgar in private. You, too, if I'm lucky."

"Crowley …" Aziraphale sighs. "Our honeymoon isn't a time to simply spend in our hotel room …" He takes a quick peek around to see if anyone's paying attention, then leans closer to his husband and whispers, "_fornicating_."

Crowley's eyes pop wide behind the smoky lenses of his glasses. "Shows what you know about honeymoons! Besides, we haven't even _started_ fornicating yet!" Crowley whisper-hisses. His blushing angels shushes him. "We've been _fraternizing _apparently, but not _fornicating_. And since you said you were _very_ interested in fornicating on this vacation of ours, I would really like to get started, angel!" Crowley licks his lips, looking his angel over lasciviously, and moans in despair. "Really _really_ like to get started!"

"Might I remind you that we are in _Paris_? In the _spring_? It might be nice to spend some time taking in the sights before we begin …" He waves his free hand dismissively "… any of _that_."

Crowley's eyes roll so far back in his head, they almost turn completely white. "We're over six _thousand_ years old, angel! We've seen the sights. Actually, we are now _re-seeing_ the sights! And guess what? They haven't changed much!"

"Bite your tongue!"

"I'd rather bite _your_ tongue, angel," Crowley growls, "and that's the point. We have all the time in the world to _see the sights, _Aziraphale! All. The time. In the world."

Aziraphale shifts in his chair, mildly uncomfortable by the conversation they're having now – but in a good way.

In an _indescribably_ good way.

But Aziraphale stands his ground. He's been waiting over a month to sample the food at _Le Cinq_. It's so exclusive that no amount of his angelic power could secure them a reservation. He had to do it the old-fashioned way – by _phone_. Doubly difficult because his French is _lousy_. The irony of that, considering how many times he's been to France, how many wars he's fought in, how many prisons he's escaped from, and how many crepes he's eaten, is not wasted on him.

"Hmph. I could say the same to you." He switches out his plate for another on the table and Crowley groans. "Now, if you don't mind ..."

"Nargh!" Crowley drops his head on the table and starts slowly and rhythmically banging it.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Do stop making a fool of yourself, love. Why don't you take a deep, cleansing breath, pick up a fork, and help me enjoy this slice, hmmm? Then we can go for nice leisurely walk back to the hotel. It's a glorious day outside. It would be nice to get some sun on our skin. Don't you think?"

Crowley raises his head slowly, total disgust painting his cheeks a violent, brick red. But he does as Aziraphale suggests – takes a deep long breath, then lets it out, smiling in that sarcastic way he does when his plans fail. "If you say so, _dear_." Crowley slides his chair closer, putting his back to the other diners as much as possible. But he doesn't pick up a fork to share Aziraphale's cake. Instead, he plucks a plump, burgundy cherry from the plate of fruit in the center of the table. He waits until Aziraphale, smiling rather superiorly, watches him. He holds it up to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. Aziraphale quirks a brow, his smile slipping into a thin line. Quicker than lightning, the pit of the cherry flies across the table. Aziraphale jumps out of his skin.

"Crowley! What are you …?"

Aziraphale's scolding stops when he gets another look at the cherry pinched between his husband's lips - a long, thin, forked tongue pierced through it. With a suggestive eyebrow wiggle, Crowley twists his tongue up through the hole, wraps it around the cherry stem, and tugs, freeing it from the fruit. Then he pulls the fruit and the stem into his mouth and begins to chew. Aziraphale, fork hanging from his fingertips, stares at his husband's mouth, mesmerized as it works around the cherry and the stem. Crowley swallows, and for a moment, Aziraphale assumes he swallowed all of it – the cherry and stem. Crowley puts his fingers to his pursed lips and pulls out the stem, tied in three perfectly spaced knots. He shows it to his angel, his jaw dropping slowly, and puts the thrice tied cherry stem on the table beside Aziraphale's plate.

Crowley blows his angel a kiss.

Aziraphale nearly swallows his tongue.

He raises a hand to the next waiter passing by.

"Check, please."


End file.
